New Mexico is in my Travel Plans

Tampa Red and Django by Ferro

a cold rainy November night is on the way.

The sequins and lace around my heart

will be traded for burlap,

my ears meanwhile will smoke peyote 

and go to New Mexico.

Bullet Points

I've heard that 

gun stores now are like jeweled palaces

Decked out and bedazzled

I've heard of genocide and the Gaza strip

• Half toned in news bites

and buried in the desert sand.

I've heard of strange old men

bearded and full of belly

I've heard of skinny kids

and women in parking garages

• all claiming to need this thing.

I've held a bullet in my hand

soft and slick, firm and round

tried to understand it

• I've heard of people trying to change language

to be less offensive

and wonder if they've decided yet

• to change the word "bullet points."

My Treasure

Where yoga mats and mathematics sit

Calamities like kittens calmly play

Rusted through a car horn my rainy wit

Wet silence says the things I cannot say

My mind released the esoteric glance

toward kite strings pulling weekends lost at sea

the heights at which we engage in the dance

of what's to be or what is not to be

The golden rings I cling to in my sleep

Give me the daily dreams on which I ride

in a birch boat across the murky deep

Gallant bouyant and with no place to hide

Tie me to the mast like Turner, I cry!

Let me feel the cold sea foam on my chest

Onward, into God's swollen heart I pry

giddy in this hidden treasure chest

Middle Eastern Hem

Dynasties of bastards dim their suns

The wreckage and the wanderer combine

The bread we ate has now become its crumbs

The knife we cut it with now draws the line

Black plumes of smoke and fumes from the exhaust

The war planes and bombs now sprinkle lead

The Lords of Oil are stacking up the costs

A thread hard pulled the hem now we must mend

Big

In the mystery of mysteries, I fell on my knees and caught my breath

The ribbons in the sky tied together clouds and rain 

Like a child with a kite, I pulled on the sun

I ran with my bare feet in the cold, wet sand

leaving footprints and throwing my ankles sideways

to see how big I could be.

Sandy Toes

It's hard to admit that

I don't know why and it doesn't matter

I've tried

I saw the clock

I had been sucked in

like an undertow on the sea

their foam was in my ears

their music was in my heart

my own drum was in the corner

under the bed

covered in dust

will you put your fingers on it

and wipe the hide clean

set it up and carry it to the beach

would you see me there

eyes glimmering with sun

beaming heart and chest

sandy toes

That's What I Said

I shout out to deny my mouth its rights to quiet peace

I fist my hand to deny it the right to caress a child

I slam my feet into the earth to deny them of their right to float lengthwise on a feather bed

What are our rights?

That's what I said.

To Keep a Diary

To keep a diary is ultimately to remain curious...

When I tried to understand why I can't write each day 

I realize it is really a lack of curiosity

about me, myself and I.

A lack of curiosity about the world is a crime.

The stranger on the sidewalk

the gypsy at the store

the Mexican grocery store 

with the new shiny vegetables

the whirring of machinery

and ceiling fans

the mysteries of human interaction.